I've Just Got One (Johnlock)
by LostMatrixx
Summary: Sherlock is battling depression and suicidal thoughts, and John Watson is the only reason he's hanging on. The two love each other and will risk their lives for each other, no doubt about it. But what happens when a teenage girl, matched with Sherlock's wit and disposition is shoved into their lives?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock gritted his teeth as tears rolled down his face. The moonlight cast dreary shadows from his open window where he sat in his bed, whimpering.

"Make it stop…"

He looked at the ceiling and cried out, "When will it end? I just need it to end!" This brought on another episode of fought-back tears, but he knew the effort would be fruitless. The only thing he tried not to do was wake his flatmate, John.

John was absolutely brilliant. He was only reason Sherlock lived through each torturous day. After being diagnosed with severe clinical depression at eighteen, he soon felt the world crumbling down on him. Each day it felt as if he was suffocating. Ten years ago, he had tried to kill himself by putting rocks in his pockets, blindfolding himself and falling backwards into a lake. His brother, Mycroft, had been there and saved him. Ironic. The one time he didn't want to be saved was the _one _day Mycroft actually cared about him.

Sherlock scoffed. What a joke he was. What a complete failure. He was never cared about by Mycroft, his once adored older brother. They used to play a game all the time together. What was it? Deductions, that's right. He never won.

A grimace crept across his narrow face. "Why don't you just die already?" he hissed. _Because John would miss you terribly. _He could never do that to his best friend.

John. He was so amazing. The little man meant everything to Sherlock. He had no idea of the stress, sleepless nights or the self-hatred and suicidal thoughts. Sherlock hid everything from John. He doesn't need to worry. So he buried himself in cases and thoughts day in and day out. He only remembered things that mattered and simply "deleted" other irrelevant thoughts, such as what John thought about all the time.

He found that thinking about him helped him calm down. Slowly his fists unclenched as he leaned back against the bed frame.

John. Why did that simple name send shivers of admiration down his spine every time? John was a very simple man, as his name implies. That's partly why Sherlock adored him. He's such a simple person. Sherlock found himself admiring him more and more every day. Doctor John Watson. The simple man who had saved this complex human being more times than he realized.

Sherlock touched his face and found himself smiling.

Smiling.

Moments ago he had been seething with rage. Sherlock breathed out a thoughtful sigh, got up and pattered to his open window where he sat, legs dangling out in the bitter London breeze. He leaned against the frame and fell asleep, a faint smile on his face as he thought about his only friend, the one he loved more than anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock was up before John, despite the very few hours of sleep he got. The consulting detective had moved from the sill down to the living room where he laid back down on the floor, staring at the wounded, spray-painted wall. He tapped his touching hands against his lips, deep in thought and sighed. Just then, he flinched as the horrors of the night before came rushing back. He bit his lip, a little nervous habit he picked up from John. John always had little quirks like that.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that struck his heart once again. "Not now," he whispered as he knew his flatmate would be up very soon. He couldn't let him be seen in such a broken state.

Sherlock hadn't moved from his resting point when John shuffled down the hall. Sherlock could tell by his footfalls that he was fully dressed, giving the rubbing of his awkward gait that he sometimes had in jeans.

Mad thoughts raced through his mind. He heard John come down the hall and worked to erase all emotion on his face.

"Morning Sherlock," John whispered tiredly. The blonde trudged into the living room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking," he replied in that monotonous tone. John was too tired to question it.

"I'm going to put on some tea. Want some?" For the first time in a while, Sherlock spoke without thinking.

"No." This caught John off guard. Sherlock never eats or drinks anything during a case or when he was thinking about something very important because digestion distracts him.

John ran a hand through his hair and furrowed his brow. "What's wrong Sherlock?" Sherlock made sure to keep his face neutral. _Idiot, _he thought.

"I'm fine John. Not in the mood." He breathed a sigh of relief as his flatmate shrugged and left. Sherlock then found his thoughts drifting, despite himself. Then again, he wasn't on a case so there was no reason for him to not think aimlessly. Still, he didn't find it quite comfortable.

Things had been quiet. The two weren't running from an ax-murderer or mulling over a case into the wee hours of the morning. Sherlock was simply bored, and it gave his mind time to wander. He hated it. Now his nights were filled with the torturous internal screams that only Sherlock himself could hear. He needed to do something.

The consulting detective then remembered a case a few weeks ago he had turned down because of a rare episode of PTSD. Something about a missing child. A boring case at best, but it was something to get his mind off his suicide.

"John!" he yelled and leapt to his feet to grab his scarf from the sofa. "Get your coat. We're going child-hunting!" He tied his scarf when John appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea in his hand. John opened his mouth in protest, brow furrowing. "Sherlock, you said you didn't-,"

"Oh just shut up and grab your coat." John stood there, looking annoyed and confused. With his back to John, Sherlock smirked. He loved seeing that look of complete confusion and annoyance on his flatmate's face. Hey, it's what he did.

Sherlock walked briskly through the door of his flat into the snow. Much more cold than last night. He looked behind him to see John shaking his head, putting his coat on and setting the tea down to run after him.

"Sherlock," he protested in that tone he knew so well. "Sherlock," John said more sternly after he ran to catch up to him. Sherlock paid no attention to the hand on his shoulder. He walked with determination through the snowfall.

"I just woke up and made tea, and now you're dragging me out to a case you declined weeks ago." He supposed that was some kind of scolding, but shrugged it off. Seeing he wasn't going to get any sort of response out of the impulsive man, John muttered, "I expect nothing less from you Sherlock. But seriously, why now?"

"Because," he answered, tone flat, "I've got to do this."

"But you said you weren't interested. You said it yourself, exact words-the kid will find herself- then walked off. Why the change of heart?" Sherlock was in a more impatient, but excited mood than usual. He took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and shoved it into John's hand. That's when he realized how cold they were.

"Just stop asking questions and read me the address." Sherlock looked up at John at saw his teeth chattering against the cold. _The poor boy's freezing. _He pitied his friend and as John began reading, Sherlock took his free hand.

Now, he's held John's hand before. Once when they were handcuffed together and once when John struggled to keep up with him. This time couldn't be any more different. Yes, he loved John. Yes, he had a crush on him, but right now Sherlock wasn't focused on flirting with him. Not that he did anyways. And thankfully, John was too cold to notice. He just slipped his hand into Sherlock's gratefully. But Sherlock did notice that he had laced his fingers with John's, not like they'd done twice before. Sherlock shook off the butterflies flitting about in his stomach and came up with the conclusion that it was a more effective way to warm John's hand.

"647 E, right here on Baker Street," he told the detective.

"Right, that's just across here." He whirled around and yanked John along with him. For some reason, he was very excited about this. The cold wind made his eyes water and John sighed impatiently. "Hurry up, John!" he called. Sherlock tightened his grip on his best friend's hand.

"I'm too short for you!" he explained through exhausted, annoyed gasps. _Slow down. _Sherlock slowed for a few steps and John caught up, hands still in his grasp. The next time he spoke he sounded more confused than annoyed. "What's the hurry for, Sherlock? What's wrong?"

A smile twitched at his lips. So John knew him better than he thought. Sherlock was too excited to think about a rational reason to tell him. His thoughts were still racing darkly, but he ran with John, faster than his thoughts could keep up.

"I'm fine, John," was what he finally said.

Finally they skidded to a stop in front of 647 E. It took a lot for Sherlock to not leap forward and ring the doorbell, but something caught his eye. He backed up a step and swept his quick, observant gaze over the door. His mind started to fire alive with details. The breeze picked up and spilled down his spine but he didn't notice.

Frost was on the doorknob. No one had touched it for a while. Chipped paint on the door to reveal a finer kind of wood than most houses on the street. He ran up and pressed his ear to the door and could hear the heater running inside. Then footsteps from inside. Male, mid-forties with a cat, he concluded, after hearing the downy fur brush against the vent.

"Nope," Sherlock said briskly and stepped back. "Not the right house." He then noticed that he had let go of John's hand in the rush of things and he was shivering again. Now that he had calmed down, he was much more self-conscious about holding his hand and didn't try again. But the poor kid was frozen.

Thankfully John asked, slightly more irritated, "What do you mean, the wrong house? The address is written right here. The parent gave us her address." Sherlock gazed at him, smiling inwardly at his friend's thinking but didn't let it show. John continued with a troubled, frustrated look. "We _went to the victim's _house and the mother wrote down the house number if we were interested later. This can't be the wrong house!" Sherlock subtly raised his eyebrows as a smile twitched at his mouth. But he just shook his head.

"They gave us the wrong address on purpose," Sherlock muttered, brain going into hyper drive. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and walked briskly off. John huffed and ran beside him.

"But how?" Sherlock stopped and turned, looking him straight in the eye. John let out a long sigh as he started to list off all the obvious reasons this wasn't the right house in his rapid fire, slightly show-offy way John knew him for.

"The mother we went to said her daughter had gone missing a week before. Ten years old. Said that her dad was gone for four months on a trip and that he was a light-weight, slender man. That definitely wasn't him. I've looked up their mortgage-,"

"Sherlock!"

"and the house that we met in isn't the same one that the actual McCreers' own. So," he continued, swinging around and walking back towards the house. "That means this is the wrong house."

"The _actual _McCreers?"John was cut off by Sherlock's raised hand.

"It's so _simple," _he sighed, even rolling his eyes. Sherlock was in a giddy mood. He heard John swallow.

"What do you even _mean?" Dear God, you're full of questions this morning. _

"That is irrelevant, John." he shot back. "Now let me get to the flat to think." John breathed a sigh of relief. But he was also puzzled, Sherlock could sense it. And secretly, so was the detective himself. What was up with him? He was so happy, so gleeful on this frozen London morning. He had went out to find a case to solve but got stopped dead in his tracks before he could even begin. John was shivering madly. Sherlock glanced down at him but kept his stare unreadable. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest. _How could you let him get so cold? You selfish bastard. _

The man drew in a silent breath and continued on towards the flat, making sure to not make any eye contact with his mate. He felt himself quickening his pace to match his racing heartbeat.

_So much bloody energy. What is going on? _

Sherlock coughed hard as they trod on through the snow. Sherlock slowly let all his thoughts fall aside so he could deal with the problem at hand.

When they got back to flat, John rushed in and grabbed his semi-warm tea. Sherlock hung back to close the door but gazed at his flatmate with sudden…

Fond admiration.

Just the simple act of being chilled to the bone and darting in to get warm… somehow that was appealing to the detective. As soon as he felt that flitting sensation in his stomach he cleared his throat and blinked.

_What did I just experience? _He was flabbergasted for a moment at himself.

Sherlock immediately went to lie down on top of the couch, touching his hands to his lips. John had sauntered off to let the slightly autistic man think, but Sherlock found that he couldn't stop his thoughts from racing.

_Odd, _he thought. He shook his head and tapped his fingers to his lips. But every time he was finally getting on to something, he found his thoughts wandering back to… to John.

_Oh bloody hell, Holmes, keep it together. You are on a case for God's sakes. _

After several hours of unsuccessful thinking, Sherlock gave up with a growl and stormed off into the snow. When John heard the flat door slam he jumped from his seat on his bed and peered out the frosted window. He chuckled to see Sherlock walking swiftly through the snow once more, head down. John suspected he was thinking. He really had no intentions of stressing over this case; he was almost finished with Great Expectations.

The doctor turned his attention back to his book when he heard shouting from down below. He looked up and furrowed his brow and concentrated, waiting for more. Again, it shouted like angry yelling, and some sort of abuse.

John drew in a sharp gasp and stared out the window again.

He saw Sherlock standing bewildered as a girl was shoved hard onto the street by a man twice her size. She went crashing onto icy, rocky ground. Sherlock's eyes flickered as he saw blood flow. She winced and staggered to feet, standing up tall against the man that stared her down. She growled and wiped blood off her hands. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the ground as his mind calculated what was going on.

The girl, who couldn't be older than fifteen or so, had skidded far and wide across the icy ground. Blood had been shed from previous brawls, he observed from the stains on her shirt and jeans. But it was the jeans he was concerned about. A great deal of blood flowed from where her right leg had torn across the road, but much too severe from just a brush burn. What had caused all the extra blood?

Sherlock's eyes danced across the scene that lay before him, taking in every bloody (no pun intended) detail.

"Leave me alone," she hissed, shaking bangs out of her eyes and staring him straight in the eye.

He sneered. "Never. You deserve this." The older man lunged forward to shove her again, but she was prepared. The girl clenched her teeth and ducked, grabbed his wrist and twisted. Fire lit alive in her eyes determined black eyes.

"_I said leave me alone!" _And with that, she let go and took off down the street. Sherlock could see tears streaming down her battered face. The man began to race after her.

"Sherlock!" He heard John's desperate cry from right outside the flat.

"Oh, right," he muttered. The detective took a calm step forward, blocked the abuser's path suddenly and socked him right in the mouth, which sent him sprawling. And with that, he spun on his heel and walked to where John had stopped the girl, who was crying and bleeding. He could tell by his concerned expression and body language that John wasn't going to let this go easily.

"Dear God, a bloody _child," _Sherlock breathed, annoyed. _Please don't get us into this mess John. _


	3. Chapter 3

_A bloody kid, _he still thought angrily as he sauntered up. John heard him approaching and looked up, a worried gleam in his almost black eyes. Sherlock felt a shiver of admiration shudder through him. Right after he cursed himself. _Sentiment, Sherlock. _

"Sherlock," he said briskly. "Go get my first aid kit." The detective nodded once and went to retrieve it. He came back and handed it to John as he observed the girl. She was sitting on the front steps, tears falling while looking at the ground. He was just about to make some deductions when John's soft, melodic voice cut into his thoughts. _Damn you, Watson. _

"It's okay, you'll be okay now." The girl drew in a shuddered breath and said nothing. She had calmed down and now must've trusted John enough for her to sit there and let him tend to her. There were bruises and cuts on her face that would heal up quickly, but Sherlock was mostly concerned about the leg. It bled much more than it should've, for a brush burn.

Sherlock cleared his throat and began to pace. "Who are you?" It sounded more like a command than a question. After a few beats of silence, Sherlock stopped in front of her. Her head was still bowed. "Well? He didn't rip out your vocal chords, did he?" John shot him a cold glare. _Back off, _it said. The detective sighed. Just wait a few more years, maybe she'll have answered…

"Scarlett Reiker." The impulsive man was shocked, but simply blinked. Her voice wasn't meek or scared, but it wasn't completely strong either. Despite what had just happened and that a complete stranger was tending to her wounds, she didn't sound afraid. But Scarlett still didn't look at him.

"Well, you'll be quite alright," John murmured, standing up and offering her his hand. Sherlock noticed the brief hesitation; then she grasped his scarred hand and was hauled to her feet.

Scarlett grimaced and shook her bangs out of her eyes. "Do you need a ride home?" Scarlett had originally made unwavering eye-contact with John, but when he mentioned that, she glanced down at the ground.

"No, I'm okay," she answered.

"Are you sure? It won't be a problem, I assure you." Sherlock could sense the blogger's urgency. _Dear God, don't start this, John. _He knew John won't let this go. He drew in slow breath as to not interject. John couldn't get them involved with her. Just let her be on her way, nothing more.

"It's fine," she retorted instantly. Too quick, Sherlock observed. He felt he could hold back his urge to cut in for a while longer, but he decided to give in.

"It's obviously not," he said curtly. Scarlett looked up at him, hazel eyes sparkling in slight alarm. She kept her guard on.

"What do you mean?" John sighed hugely and rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming. Sherlock frowned and clasped his hands behind his back, looking her up and down. Scarlett backed up half a step. He began to pace.

"Your shirt, it hasn't been cleaned for a few days." He could tell Scarlett was trying hard to keep her face neutral.

"Ah," Sherlock murmured, smiling. "I'm not done. I can tell by your stature you're wary of us, fair enough. You're poised to run, or at least antsy to get out of here." Sherlock ignored John's attempt to shut him up.

"You don't look like the glamorous type, it seems. Your hair is a mess as well as your shoes, which have holes in them that _only _a cat or some small animal could've made with repeated poking." Scarlett shot him a look. "And you're not one for being in close relationships, either." She looked slightly afraid but tried hard to suppress it. "Obvious by the lack of a necklace or bracelets, which I see most teenage girls your age wear, commonly give to by 'friends'." John glared at him. He raised his eyebrows, allowing amusement to creep into his tone.

"Enough, Sherlock. Stop showing off."

He dew in a breath and twirled on his heel to look at the baffled girl again. "Ah, let's continue on to your performance with the man out on the street moments ago, shall we?" He smirked as she took a steady breath and eyed him. Scarlett remained silent.

"Sherlock, quit it," John growled but Sherlock pushed on. He was having a great deal of fun at their expense.

"You seem to have some sort of connection to him, due to the words shared. He despises you, you despise him. He wants to beat you up but knows you can fight back. So that's why he didn't go too far, for fear he would get himself hurt."

"Sherlock!"

"You indeed did fight back but you obviously mean something to him or he wouldn't run after you. But he _did. So, _that means he's not going to let you get away. He'll try to find you."

Scarlett glared. "Back off."

He ignored her. Sherlock knew he was going too far, and he could sense other people staring. The detective's eyes traveled to her leg wound but remained expressionless. Scarlett saw that immediately and brought that leg behind the other.

"I _said, back off." _He detected a threatening air about her. He admired that, somehow. Just as he opened his mouth to explain his deduction, John stepped forward and gripped his shoulder, hissing dangerously in his ear. Sherlock looked down at him with an expressionless gaze.

"You need to _shut the hell up, _Sherlock Holmes. You are going _too far. _You need to learn when to _back off." _Sherlock thought about this for a moment, then decided to oblige.

"Alright, fine." The detective cleared his throat and managed to keep silent. John turned to Scarlett.

"My apologies, Scarlett. He tends to do that a lot."

"It's scary," she muttered quietly.

John raised his eyebrows. "Yup." He sighed. "Now, we need to get you home. I can get a cab for you." She fidgeted and looked at the ground.

"Problem?" John asked softly.

"No." She shook her head and swallowed and stared at her bruised and bleeding wrists. "I can walk home, it's okay."

At that moment, a look of hurt swept over her face and Sherlock made the mistake of letting his guard down. It was a very brief display of emotion, but Sherlock caught it. And he knew exactly what it was. The detective knew what was going on in her head and he knew what she must be feeling. He's felt that way many times before. In the dark, crying out and seething, wishing he was dead.

But Sherlock just sighed, clasped his hands behind his back and nodded silently to the teenager. That leg still concerned him slightly.

"Right, you figure out your situation-even though the solution will be inevitable-and I'll be inside thinking and watching frozen thumbs melt. Goodbye Scarlett." He was vaguely amused as he heard Scarlett shift the slightest bit in confusion.

The detective let out an angered sigh and plopped himself in his chair, rubbing his face.

"Oh _hell, _what a bloody idiot you are John!" he cried. He had taken in more details than he decided, or rather forced by John, to share but he'd foreseen what would happen. Sherlock knew that girl had no place to go. No real, proper home. Ran off. Parents gone or something. The man must've been her caretaker. Fending for herself, and she doesn't want anything to do with him. She has more patience for John but not Sherlock. Scarlett just wants to get out but John won't let her.

He groaned out of frustration again and slammed his hand on the coffee table.

"Damn!" He got up and stared at the ceiling. "You cannot let this girl come into our lives!" Sherlock went silent as he thought, _especially because I love you. _

The man spun around, his coat twirling around his slender legs. He would not let this go too far. But right as he curled his fingers around the door handle, it was flown open by John and huge blast of frigid wind.

Very unlike himself, Sherlock stumbled backwards and wasn't able to catch himself. Sherlock fell backwards and thudded against the hardwood floor.

Before he could stagger to his feet, he sensed a warm hand reaching down to grasp his. The detective looked up and grabbed John's hand, hauling him up. Without meaning to, Sherlock fell into John's arms slightly, and John held him tightly.

_Damnit._

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped backwards. John seemed to realize what just happened. His cheeks flushed as he simply nodded. The two stood there uncomfortably for a minute before Scarlett called softly, "You two okay?"

All previous awkwardness forgotten, Sherlock huffed and walked back into the living room, head reeling. _John just embraced me when it was clearly unnecessary. What is he getting at? John needs to quit this._

Sherlock realized he was just trying to deny it himself. John couldn't possibly be attracted to him, although he wanted it to be true so, so badly. He cursed himself. _Sentiment! Damn! _

Before the man could consider this any longer, he heard soft footsteps shuffle into the living room. He gazed at the teenager with angry but observant crystal gray eyes.

"Oh great, here she is again," he muttered to himself.

She entered quietly and meekly, looking around. When her gaze locked with his, she nodded self-consciously.

_Very different disposition from earlier. Scared. Curious. Scared of me most likely. _Scarlett ran her fingers through her fringe but her dyed black and red hair just fell in front her eyes again. They glittered nervously. And before Sherlock could interject an obvious fact, she murmured,

"You don't really want me here, huh?" Sherlock remained neutral, despite the fact that she seemed to read his mind.

"Why of course I don't. Why would I want a hormonal being in my presence?" She just shrugged, staring at the ground again. Not the reaction he would expect from her. He assumed that was a "rude" comment, and most people didn't take it that easily. Or she just wasn't paying attention, or really caring. He took this moment of silence to make a deduction.

_Self-conscious. Nervous. Anxious, clearly. On edge. Not the same girl fighting. Uncomfortable and ashamed. _

Sherlock blinked.

_Ashamed? Why? _

John walked in and stared at Sherlock. "Well Scarlett, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. If he's rude, don't worry. He's mostly downright unfriendly and demanding. Nothing personal. But he can be alright at times." The detective glared at John and the short man smirked, eyes shining with some sort of emotion he couldn't understand.

"So I assume Scarlett is moving in," he drawled, knowing the obvious answer.

John nodded. "For now." He sighed as Scarlett made flickering eye contact with him again.

"If that's alright with you, Mr. Holmes. I don't really have a choice." He huffed and turned himself to the wall in his chair. He could sense John making an annoyed face at him.

"I'm real sorry about him," John muttered under his breath at Scarlett. She didn't respond.

"C'mon, I'll show you to your room. You must be tired." Out of the corner of his eye he could see her flinch as she nodded and took a step behind Watson. Sherlock swallowed, noting that that was the same leg that bled much more than it should've.

When Scarlett was delivered to her room, John came back and sat on the armrest of the couch.

"Well you're a bloody idiot," he deadpanned. Sherlock drew in a breath.

"Does it really matter now? She's staying with us anyways, I might as well get my apparently _annoying _deductions out of the way." The detective then coughed suddenly for a solid five seconds, barely taking a breath between coughs. There was a slightly stunned silence. With his back still to John he cleared his throat and then snuggled up closer to the wall.

"You sound like you're catching something. Want me to make you a cuppa?" John murmured. Sherlock felt a shiver go down his spine as he recognized more of a tender, gentle tone in his voice. He shook away the feeling immediately. _You just imagined that. _

"Go ahead," Sherlock grumbled, trying not to sound too grateful.

"I really hope you won't be such a bastard to Scarlett on a daily basis," his flatmate mused a few minutes later, coming back with his steaming drink.

"Don't count on it," Sherlock replied honestly. John handed him his tea and Sherlock sat up to make room. John sat at his feet on the couch and sighed.

"Please just cooperate with her. I know you don't want this at all, but she's got nowhere to go. Just for a bit." John met his electric blue gaze. "Please Sherlock. Just… be nice, okay?" He shrugged and coughed again, taking a sip of his tea. He was secretly grateful for it.

For some reason Scarlett got on his nerves. She had barely said more than five sentences to him but for some reason she ticked him off. There was no logical explanation for his annoyance, he just… was. She was quiet and humble. Maybe that's what annoyed him about her. Oh, he didn't know. All he was sure of was that he wasn't going to like this.

The man rolled his eyes "Oh God John, don't expect me to be some perfect little angel because we have a _teenager _living with us." He narrowed his eyes in disgust. "I still can't believe you're letting this happen, Watson." Sherlock growled and leapt to his feet off the couch. When he looked back at John he could see a flash of disappointment in his brown eyes. It was fleeting, but he got it anyhow. Brushing it away Sherlock coughed and said, "Leave me to work on an experiment. Go socialize or something." Sherlock stormed off with a huff, yanking slender fingers through his dark brown curls towards the kitchen. John was left blinking, confused. He stretched and sighed quietly, missing his flatmate's tall figure. "Alright then. Tell me if you need anything."

"Why would I need anything from you?" Sherlock yelled angrily from the other room.

John cleared his throat and went to check on Scarlett. "No reason at all," he answered, heart sinking in his chest.

Sherlock didn't know why he was suddenly so mad. It wasn't like him to let his temper rise so quickly for almost no explanation at all. It wasn't fair to John either. He leaned his hands on the counter and dropped his head, thinking. It was John, he concluded after a bit. He bit his lip, sighing. He was just afraid of Scarlett replacing him.

There it was. That's why he took an instant dislike to her. Sherlock was afraid of John replacing him with Scarlett. He was jealous.

"Dear _God," _he groaned aloud, rubbing his eyes. He hated this. He really did. All of these mixed emotions. It was all new to him. He didn't know how to handle it. And that's what he hated most; not knowing.


End file.
